


The Wind That Stirs

by ninaunn



Series: you i choose above a crown [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/M, Here Lies the Abyss, Long-Distance Relationship, Male-Female Friendship, Qunari, Regret, Sarcasm, Weary Hawke, veiled PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-08 11:59:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3208373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninaunn/pseuds/ninaunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke gave her the information on the Wardens and Loghain’s hiding hole, and a promise of aid, and Adaar thanked her. As if a failed Champion could do anything but muddy the already blackened waters of this task.</p><p>Still, Hawke wore the Champion’s armour she had won defending the City of Chains. She had been at the centre of this mess’s beginning.</p><p>But when had she ever been known to champion a hopeful cause?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

\--

_the wind that stirs_

_their shallow graves_

_carries their song_

_across the sands_

The Ballad of Ayesleigh

\--

Varric had warned her that that Inquisitor was a Qunari, but Maker, it was something else to see in the flesh. Beside her dwarven friend, the Inquisitor was a mountain; all broad shoulders and thick limbs. With hands that size, Hawke did not doubt she could rip a log in half.

It didn’t sit easily. All those years in Kirkwall had born in Hawke a healthy wariness of grey-skinned ox-men, no matter how much she’d hidden it with irreverence. She even had the scars to remind her, from hip to rib.

Varric was pacing while his companion looked out at Skyhold’s profile. He’d not written much on the Inquisitor herself except to say she seemed to have a good head on her, never mind the horns. Hawke hoped she was treating him well. The Arishok had looked at his Antaam like chess pieces, and the few of Tal-Vashoth had not tried to kill her had never revealed anything anything so tender as companionship. Varric deserved someone to look out for him, he was a social creature.

Maker, she’d missed him this past year. She missed them all.

Still, the Qunari seemed unruffled by Varric’s nervousness. There was a rested power in the line of the Inquisitor’s shoulders that the Arishok had also possessed, like the calm surface of a river with a deeper, tumultuous current. 

Hawke shook her head; the Arishok had been no river, he’d been the summer snow-melt held back by the cracked dam of the Qun. No one had seen how deep the fault-lines ran.The Viscount had patched them up with sand while Petrice and her lot had gone in with pick axes to prove themselves right. When the dam finally broke, the torrent left nothing but rubble. Kirkwall had been shattered from the inside, and all the celebration of Hawke's victory hid the dreadful knowledge of how close they came to oblivion.

She held back a shudder that was accounted to chilly altitude of the fortress. The sharp line in her belly ached. Varric was no fool, surely he had an eye out for warning signs?

A weak part of Hawke wished Fenris were here, spouting out Qunlat in his wonderful, deep voice. Maybe the Inquisitor would be shocked into a reaction, though she doubted it. At the very least, Hawke would be able to roll her eyes at the slight smirk Fenris would surely throw her way; she never had his gift for language.

She wished…

But no, that was whimsy, and she was speculating.

Hawke’s mouth was already a tight line before Varric’s grand introduction. Time was, he’d declared her every time she walked into the Hanged Man, followed by a stiff drink of Corf’s finest swill. As she jogged down the parapet’s steps, Adaar turned, and the corners of the Champion’s lips dipped at the sharp gaze beneath deep red markings.

Flames, the Inquisitor had to be Qunari, hadn’t she?

“Though I don’t use that title much any more,” Hawke finished, nodding slightly to her old friend. He looked worn too, she realised with a pang. No dwarf should have a face that thin.

The Inquisitor stepped forward, sizing up Kirkwall’s one time Champion. It was the brow, Hawke decided, that put her in mind of the Arishok, and that penetrating stare. The Qunari seemed to be waiting for her to sprout wings and soar away breathing fire. 

“Hawke, the Inquisitor,” Varric continued, and she marvelled at the false cheer in his words. “I figured you might have some friendly advice about Corypheus. You and I did fight him, after all.” 

The dwarf turned away, but not before Hawke glimpsed the bitter sneer that marred his face. Maker knew, she felt the same. That so much should have come from their failure, that such a fracturing of the world, and from what? It had been her blood that had unleashed that monstrosity. Her father who had first bound it. 

It hurt to see her guilt reflected in Varric. Hawke looked instead to Skyhold and rested her elbows on the stone wall. She felt the step of the Inquisitor come to her side, and all her muscles tensed for...something. Hawke wasn't sure what.

However, Adaar seemed content to wait. The crossed arms brought to mind Aveline staring at Isabella in lock-up and waiting for an explanation. Simpler times.

A heavy sigh left her chest. 

Not the Arishok, Hawke realised. The lines of Adaar’s face were too angular; her lips were too full and gentle and her horns were too broken. All the Qunari Hawke had ever known had held to the Qun like a life-line; if it snapped, they lost everything. However, it seemed that the Inquisitor had learnt to hold her judgement, something that great horned lunk in Kirkwall had never bothered to do.

This Qunari was another kettle of fish entirely. She found herself relieved.

“You’ve already dropped half a mountain on the bastard,” Hawke quipped. “I’m sure anything I can tell you pales in comparison.”

The deep hum that came from Adaar startled Hawke for its humour.

“Oh I don’t know,” the Inquisitor shifted her stance. “You did save a city from a horde of rampaging Qunari.”

That almost made Hawke laugh even as memories sparked behind her eyes. How sudden it had been! A few wrong words and they’d been dodging javelins the size of trees. Hawke doubted she would have escaped the compound if not for Aveline’s shield. And then there had been fire, and screaming, and fear, and it hadn’t been until Dumar’s had bounced down the stairwell that a rage had boiled up in her and-

It had been a long time since she had spoken to a Qunari on any civil terms. Perhaps that was why her mind was so keen on digging up such old horrors.

“I don’t see how that really applies,” Hawke answered dryly, brushing off the remembered terror. “Or is there a horde of rampaging Qunari I don’t know about?”

The Inquisitor, damn her, didn’t even flinch when she told Hawke she was one in her own right. Were all female Qunari like this? No wonder the Qun kept them close to heart.

Adaar asked her questions, cutting and brutal about their failures. Hawke answered as best she could and Varric drank.

Where had he secreted that bottle away, she wondered? The Inquisitor did not miss the darting of her eyes. Had he ever drunk so early in the morn?

Things had changed after Kirkwall, after Anders and his ‘justice’. No one had emerged from that fire unscathed, least of all her companions. Varric, dear Varric, who had tried so hard to tell people the best of themselves, had lost his faith in the workings of the world and his ability to craft for it a happy end. 

But this was no intervention; there were greater matter at hand than the slow crumbling of her old friend. This was the fabric of reality being torn apart by something they’d unwittingly let loose. 

Maker it hurt to brush aside a friend’s pain in necessity. Maybe there would be time to sit Varric down and talk…

At least Bethany was safe.

The Inquisition had red lyrium, blood-mage cultists, an undead magister and corrupted Wardens to manage. It had been bad enough trying to balance the mage and Templar business in Kirkwall, let alone this end of the world muck. But Varric had thrown his lot in, and hers, now. How fortunate that the one who currently carried it had such broad shoulders. 

Adaar didn’t look as if she felt fortunate. Hawke could feel the weight of it from where she stood. Perhaps that’s where their redemption stood, in shouldering the burden.

Who are you? 

Hawke wondered at the sharp, earnest eyes that stayed on hers. This rough-handed warrior, who knew what questions were important and the implications of their answers, was no bull-headed soldier of the Antaam or blind-raging Tal-Vashoth.

Never mind Qunari, what kind of woman had dragged loyalty from the like Templar Cullen and Seeker Pentaghast? 

The people she had dragged along on her mercenary jobs were borderline crooks, refugees and misfits. Hawke loved every one of them, and they would die for her to a man for the scars she’d worn for them. In one city they’d become heroes, or at the very least infamous, but that was one city.

Inquisitor Adaar was courting Imperial Court Mages, Tevinter nobles and Nevarran heroes. Inquisitor Adaar had faced down an Arch-demon leashed to ancient magister, and effectively ended the Mage and Templar, where Hawke had only started one. 

_Who are you?_

The Inquisitor tilted her head, and motioned for Hawke to go on.

Hawke gave her the information on the Wardens and Loghain’s hiding hole, and a promise of aid, and Adaar thanked her. As if a failed Champion could do anything but muddy the already blackened waters of this task.

Still, Hawke wore the Champion’s armour she had won defending the City of Chains. She had been at the centre of this mess’s beginning.

Fenris would recognise the look on her face, she thought. He’d scowl and tell her not to die. So should Varric. Maybe that’s why he had turned away, so as not to see her pledge herself to another hopeless cause.

When had she ever been known to champion a hopeful cause? 

Hopefully Fenris would forgive her for doing this without him. Bethany would, but she’d be cross. 

“Corypheus is my responsibility,” the Champion told Adaar, voice heavy with many things. “I thought I’d killed him before, this time I’ll make sure of it.”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wondered how Hawke would take meeting Inquisitor Adaar. She just seems so tired when you see her, Varric too, and I guess I wanted to explore that a little.
> 
> Also, Hawke refers to Adaar as a Qunari and not a Vashoth because so much of her experiences with that race is from Kirkwall, and she can't quite shake off the term.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Varric mostly avoid a heart-to-heart.
> 
> Namely; why he sent a letter to get her caught up in the Inquisition's mess, and why she answered.

For all her bluster, there was something glorious about having the Inquisitor call the shots. How long had it been since someone else had taken charge in her presence? Even the Viscount had deferred to Hawke’s judgement by the end. Apparently it would take at least a week for the Sister Nightingale’s scouts to assess the climate of Crestwood. In the meantime, she’d been told to rest and recuperate. 

Adaar did not, Varric informed her, like going into a situation blind. Hawke deliberately ignored his sly glance to her; Maker knew Fenris had scolded her for recklessness enough. She wondered how he would have compared the two of them.

Hawke had been allocated a small cell overlooking the garden courtyard. It was small and clean with a fire-place, and far more than she deserved. The scarred woman eyed the bed hungrily; Hawke had been on the run for so long, even the drooping mattress and lumpy blankets looked like a luxury.

“Please forgive the sparse settings, Champion,” came the lilting voice of Skyhold’s ambassador. “We are still in the throes of moving in.”

“And here I was, about to throw a fit about the lack of silk sheets,” Hawke turned with a crooked smile, “Anything thing else ruins my complexion, you know.”

Lady Montilyet’s lips form a perfect circle before she caught Hawke’s sardonic tone. Josephine answered with a raised brow and the bobbing of the feather quill.

“Of course, I shall see the matter remedied immediately,” the Ambassador’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “We have some Royale Sea Silk on hand, or would you prefer some delightful brocade that was recently shipped in from Orlais?”

“Oh, the Sea Silk,” Hawke replied, and tossed her head back in a manner that would have made her mother proud. “I never could abide anything Orlaisian; gives me hives.” 

“How dreadful for you.”

“Tortuous, darling, I assure you.”

It was an easy routine to fall into. Good old Hawke, making fun of the ridiculous nobles who clamoured for her attention. Isabella would have had a delightful innuendo or three, she was sure. The pirate had a gift for offending and intriguing the wealthy simultaneously, something she’d managed to pass on to Hawke. 

The Ambassador was clever, to be sure, but very proper. Isabella would have enjoyed making her blush. As it was, Josephine’s laugh was like the chiming of tiny bells, and bid Hawke to enjoy her stay.

“If you would, Champion,” the pretty Antivan paused just as she was to leave, “refrain from declaring yourself. Our people are loyal to the Inquisition, to be sure, but they are from many walks of life. Not all would welcome your presence here.” 

“Of course, Ambassador,” Something tugged at her heart. She’d gotten used to her now infamous reputation, but it still unsettled her. Once, Hawke had been proud to be Kirkwall’s protector. Yet the mantel had become heavier and heavier, until of late it was no longer a duty, but a burden, and a cursed one at that. 

Looking up, Hawke found the Ambassador studying her intently. Foolish, to let herself get so distracted in from of a noble and a politician. She stretched her mouth into a wide grin.

“Though you might call me something other than ‘Champion’. It does rather give the game away.”

“Ah,” Josephine flushed, thrown by Hawke’s curve ball. “You are correct, naturally. I will endeavour to do so. I will, uh, leave you to rest.”

When the door finally closed, Hawke sighed and sank onto the lumpy bed. As soon as Varric had written about Corypheus and the latest threat to all of Thedas, Hawke had set off to Skyhold. It had been a peculiar kind of horror that had wormed its way down her spine at the looping script of Varric’s letter. The dark memory of the Warden prison hidden in the Vimmark Mountains was on par with the Deep Roads, and knowing what it was she had unleashed, Hawke had hardly paused for breath before setting off.

It had been a long time since she had rested, and rested well. Sleep was always easier with Fenris by her side. Hawke was not even sure she had done the right thing in leaving him behind, but at least he was safe.

Idly, the weary woman fingered the buckles of her left vambrace. She meant to find out Varric and see if he had any new correspondence from Kirkwall, but her eyes were heavy and Hawke lay back just for a moment.

And slept.

\--

A scraping sound jolted her hands to the blades at her back, only to find…nothing. Hawke made to snarl, until a warm, familiar chuckle sounded at the foot of her bed. The soft glow of a low burning fire pervaded the room, and she scrubbed at her eyes to see the red blur of Varric’s tunic and the shine of his boot buckles propped up on a chair.

“Easy there, Hawke.” At his voice, she sagged back into to mattress, noticing dimly that most of her armour had been removed. “No need to get your knickers twisted up.”

No light filtered in from the singular, high window of her room; it must be at least past the seventh bell. From the sleepy groan of her bones and the buzz behind her eyes, Hawke knew she had slept long and heavily. Rubbing her face, the rogue eased herself upright with a groan.

Her friend, however, seemed to not have slept at all. The firelight cast harsh lines upon Varric’s blunt features. A bottle of something was propped loosely on his knee, and a dozen sheafs of paper were scattered about his feet. Hawke squinted.

“Varric,” she informed him, “I promise, you are the last person to get them into such a state.”

His chuckle was breathy and faint, but a laugh nonetheless. 

“Thank the Maker for that,” replied the dwarf, and took a swig from his bottle.

Snorting, Hawke watched the line of his throat bob before she leant over to swipe the drink right from his hand. Varric cursed, and made to grab it back, but Hawke had longer limbs and hands fast enough to elude his. Bringing the bottle up to her nose, she winced at the sharp and sour smell. Ignoring Varric’s dark look, Hawke knocked back a gulp of the heady stuff and marginally avoided choking on the taste.

Maker, it was vile. Worse than Isabella’s usual swill.

He settled back into his chair, watching her warily for an accusation. Hawke wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and grinned.

“Is there a reason you’re camping out at the foot of my bed?”

The frown on Varric’s forehead eased a little, but not all. Shrugging his shoulders, the Head of House Tethras raised his hands in resigned bemusement.

“You mean apart from the joy I get from waiting hand and foot on you humans?” Varric’s voice was rough. “Just wanted to check up on my favourite renegade Champion.”

Hawke’s jaw clenched, and she looked away.

“You know I don’t like that title anymore,” she replied, accusation soft in her tone. 

Something tensed in the room, in their camaraderie. Talking with Varric had always been easy, even about the hard things like Merril’s self-imposed isolation or Anders’ grip on Justice. Maybe they’d both been hurting too much and too long. Now guilt haunted their banter where it never had before.

Varric grunted, and reached over to reclaim his liquor.

“Old habits die hard.”

“I know.”

They sat in silence, listening to the fire crackle and burn. Outside the wind howled and guards shuffled around their nightly routes. Skyhold was a contradiction; isolated, and yet the hub of Thedas’s newest political power. 

That was probably why the place unsettled her so; it was still becoming. Kirkwall had been an easy city to read. It stank of slavery and sorrow, but Adaar was dragging the Inquisition into something new entirely.

“Careful,” murmured Varric in a softer tone, interrupting her musings. “Too much of that and you’ll end up like that broody lover of yours.”

Hawke looked back at her friend, and wondered again how he was coping, and if that Seeker had hurt him more than he’d let on. 

Leaning forward, she curled her expression into an exaggerated frown. 

“Are you saying I can’t pull off the dark, tortured look?” menaced Hawke.

“Hah. I’m saying you don’t have the eyebrows for it.”

She chuckled at that, and ran a hand through her thick hair.

“Isn’t that the truth,” she sighed, and it’s Varric’s turn to study her carefully. He took another drink and held it out to her.

“So,” he began, and she knew he was going to ask the exact question she did not have a happy answer for. “How exactly did you manage to prevent the elf from following you here like a snarly puppy?”

Hawke felt her face twitch into the start of a wince, before hiding her head in her hands.

“Ah.”

“Maker’s balls,” she muttered. She felt the sharpness of his gaze on her.

“Where does he think you are?” 

“Orzammar,” Hawke told him, scrubbing her eyes and cheeks and feeling sick. “Seeing if any of their less savoury inhabitants knew of red lyrium.”

Varric’s mouth almost rose into a sneer, but that was most likely a reflection of his feeling toward the dwarven city. Probably. It nonetheless soon faded. His gaze had not faltered.

“And?”

Hawke groaned. This time, when he offered the bottle, she took it.

“I wanted him to keep an eye on Bethany, and Aveline wanted to get back to Kirkwall,” she answered, voice tight. Hawke had hated bending the truth to Fenris, and she’d already asked so much of Aveline. 

No doubt they would have followed her. Corypheus had been an old horror that had hit Hawke where it hurt; her home, her sister, her father’s memory. No doubt her oldest friend and her lover would have sharpened their swords to help hunt down and end the abomination that had spawned that green hole in the sky.

The selfish part of Hawke wished she’d told them, wanted their steadfast loyalty as her side for the fight to come. But it would have been cruel as well as selfish. In Kirkwall, Donnic waited for his wife and the City Guard waited for its Captain, and Fenris would keep her sister safe and both of them would be far, far away from the mess brewing in Orlais. 

Meanwhile, Hawke would finish what she started.

“I was to meet them in Amaranthine, after,” she finished quietly, staring at the bottle in her hand.

“It wouldn’t take long for you to join them.”

A small breath escaped her throat, the ghost of a laugh soon forgotten. The lean woman returned the rum to its owner.

“You could come with me,” Hawke countered. The look Varric cast her way is long and littered with resignation.

“Get some sleep,” the dwarf told her, shaking his limbs as he made to leave. Hawke watched as he collected his papers and donned his jacket. It is only at the door that Varric paused and tilted his head in her direction. “In my experience, Nightingale’s birds fast return to the nest. I’ll…see you in the morning.”

He was gone; the door closed heavily and Hawke was left in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was wasn't even meant to be a multi-chapter fic. I'm kinda just keeping the ball rolling, really.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke makes a new friend, and meets an old one.
> 
> If 'friend' meant 'new person to snark at', or else 'another person who wanted a hero, where she was only a champion'.

Taking Josephine’s advice about discretion, Hawke wore only her leathers and a single visible dagger when she entered the grand hall the next morning. Dust littered the cold mountain air, a combination that did less for her sinuses than Lothering in the spring.

Barely any noticed Hawke despite her sneezing, though that might have been due to the intense reconstruction then any cunning disguise. The dull thud of hammers and the sawing of wood made Skyhold seem more like a wood-worker’s shop than a fortress. Yet beneath the scaffolding, canvas and many, many dwarven craftsmen, Hawke could see the shape of a fine hall emerging. 

The Inquisitor certainly wasn’t sparing any expense on the construction of her strong hold. Some noble in Serault had made a pretty penny from the stained-glass windows that hung above the Inquisitor’s simple throne, and she’d never seen the like of the mosaics being assembled over doorways. If that weren’t enough, Hawke was certain that she spied Marcher statues being installed.

Across the hall, Ambassador Montilyet directed the delivery of some kind of drapes with avid enthusiasm that made Hawke wonder if it wasn’t, in fact the female qunari who was responsible for Skyhold’s affluence. Who the rather…eclectic design was accredited to was, however, still up for debate.

Treading lightly, Hawke wound her way through busy messengers and workmen, smiling overly bright at the few Orlesian looking nobles who gave her a second glance. Maker, those hats were ridiculous. She should try and get one for Isabella.

Still, despite the inspired mix of styles, a curious air of purpose lingered amidst Skyhold. While Hawke wouldn’t call it hope, exactly, but there was a determination that was more than simply distracted despair.

It was a novelty to Hawke. So much of Thedas was resigned to imminent disaster.

Spying a familiar red coat folded over a chair, she wandered over to the messy desk by a fireplace where Varric had clearly set up shop. Stained letters and reports littered the desk alongside a number of empty bottle and inkwells. Idly, Hawke picked through sheafs of paper; most of it appeared to be mail from his relatives in the Merchant Guild and contacts in the Carta.

“All he needs is a Nora to deliver that Maker-awful stew he loves so much,” she muttered to no one. Hopefully he kept his personal correspondence more securely.

How long would it take for his contacts to send word to Fenris, Hawke wondered, before pushing the thought away. She would write to him, and explain why he’d been left behind with Bethany. The rogue gnawed at her bottom lip. Hopefully he’d understand. Hopefully they both would.

Spying the rough drafts of a new novel made Hawke frown; Varric was normally far more careful with his scripts, especially after the abomination that had been Hard in Hightown Two. Hawke sighed, whatever the reason, Varric probably had some kind of safe guard in place. 

Glancing up, she scanned the hall for her friend, unsurprised when the sharp gaze of a youth turned away at her glance. That made her mouth twitch; probably one of Varric’s runners. At least he wasn’t getting careless.

Huffing, Hawke kicked a table leg and turned to face the fire. The embers within were from the night before; Varric had not been there this morning.

Hawke scowled; she was restless and had not the patience to wait for the dwarf to show up. Her best bet was probably to seek him out at the local tavern. With one last glance at the hall, she walked through the closest open door. Maybe Andraste would smile and deliver her to the kitchen. 

Instead, she came to a round room, mostly bare of furniture apart from a small, central table, and partially covered with the most extraordinary murals. She stopped and stared with wide eyes.

Swaths of colour ranged from bright red to dusky purples and dark greys. The Inquisition’s sword stood boldly, flanked by wolves, followed by an ornamented figure in front of two opposing cities. Hawke peered closely at the painting, unease in her belly. She’d killed too many Tevinter mages not to recognise the iconography. 

Behind her, a small cough broke the rogue’s reverie. Hawke’s fingers flexed to her dagger, but she pulled them back from instinct at the deliberately placid expression of the newcomer. 

“Did you need something?” asked the pale, bald elf. Blue pigment dotted the hands holding a ceramic jar, and narrowed eyes assessed her with faint impatience. 

Hawke’s own gaze skittered over the rough, homespun quality of his clothes and caught on the curious animal jaw that hung around his neck, before rising to answer.

“Not particularly,” she answered glibly, scuffing her heel against the stone floor. “Just having a look.”

The elf frowned ever so slightly at that, so Hawke threw him an obnoxiously cheerful smile, certain to annoy. It had always worked on Carver, back in the day.

“I see,” he said, shifting his grip on the jar. “Well, the library is one level up, as is the rookery.”

Shrugging, she carelessly waved away his suggestion.

“Oh, I was never much of a reader.”

It was childish, but wearing thin this elf’s patience was proving to be more entertainment than she’d had in weeks.

“Well, if there is nothing else.” With a clipped tone, he stepped aside and gestured to the door with one arm. Eyes sharp, he seemed to be waiting for her to object. Very assured of himself, Hawke noted, especially for an elf with no vallaslin.

She bowed elaborately, arms rolling and neck bared, before looking up with a grin. The expression on his face was as delightful unimpressed as she’d hoped.

“Of course, Messere,” replied Hawke. Fenris would have been cross with her, for being so facetious with no good reason. “I’ve taken too much of your time as-“

Just above the elf’s left ear, to the side of the Tevinter themed mural, a greed orb was engulfed by a looming shadow with a twisted face. Fire burned beneath a mountain range, and Hawke shuddered. The lopsided silhouette was simple and stylised, but there was no mistaking those jutting shoulders and haggard features.

Slowly, Hawke straightened, arms loose and mouth tight. Stone griffons had balefully watched them so deep underground. The dwarven rotunda had been dank and bleak, but the eyes of the long dead magister had been bright with power and rage despite the veil of slumber.

_Dumat! Lord! What waking dream is this?_

She hadn’t felt that much horror since the Deep Roads. Her knuckles popped as Hawke clenched her fists. The elf said nothing. He didn’t need to; she could feel him analysing her reaction.

“You’ve done a marvellous job,” Hawke dryly noted before her companion could say anything. Placing her fingers on her chin, she nodded, as if deciding her opinion. “Just his likeness, even down to those creepy, unnaturally long fingers.”

The elf made a noise, something between humour and bitterness. Kirkwall’s former Champion could relate.

“It is gratifying to know I’ve captured the horror of this age with such accuracy,” he replied with mock gratitude.

 _Who’s the glib one now,_ Hawke thought grimly, and only slightly regretted acting like an arse earlier. 

“He looks far too solemn,” she informed him, stalking over to the wall for a closer view.

“Oh?”

She could practically hear the rustling of the elf’s proverbial feathers from behind her back. It made her grin toothily. Anders had rustled loudly too, whenever she’d teased about his bloody manifesto, though he’d had the benefit of a coat of actual feathers. The smile faltered.

“Yes,” confirmed Hawke, “These beings of unspeakable evil and calamity, they’re always laughing maniacally, especially the Magisters. Head thrown back, hands outstretched, MWA-HAHAHa. That sort of thing.”

There was a moment’s pause, before Hawke heard his soft step retreat and the small sounds of objects being moved around a cluttered table.

“I have been remiss, then, in the study of said magister behaviour,” the tone was clipped, but not overly hostile, and Hawke wondered at his manner of speech. She couldn’t place it. Glancing over her shoulder, the rogue noted that the elf was decidedly ignoring her for his pigments.

“Do please forgive me,” he continued snidely. “I believe I was distracted trying to keep an arch-demon off the Inquisitor, to study his manners in any detail."

Hawke snorted loudly, earning her a startled glance. Fenris would have admired this elf for his attitude, she thought. Disliked him, yes, but admired his boldness.

“What, only the one?” she chuckled, “I heard the Hero of Ferelden fought four single-handedly to end the last Blight.”

“I am made of less sterner stuff.”

“As am I.”

They shared a glance, a brief smile.

“You are not from Skyhold,” he informed her suddenly. Hawke had to look away.

“No,” she admitted. “I…I’m visiting a friend.”

“Ah.” 

“Hn.” 

Thankfully, he did not pry further. A pang in her stomach reminded Hawke she’d yet to break her fast. Rolling her shoulders, she was about to ask for directions to the kitchen when one of the heavy doors creaked open to reveal a bulky figure clad in red velvet and feathers. 

“Ah, Solas,” the Templar began, running a distracted hand through his hair. Hawke’s stomach rolled over. “Good morning.”

“Commander.”

Maybe if she didn’t move, he wouldn’t realise she was there.

No such luck. His blue eyes caught hers and froze. Hawke’s jaw clenched. She’d known Cullen was advising the Inquisition. Supposedly he hadn’t received the memo that she was now also an acting consultant.

“Hawke!”

“Knight Captain,” she greeted stiffly. Solas looked up.

“It’s…uh…Commander now,” the ex-Templar stammered. Damn him. “I don’t…I wasn’t aware-“

“Then I suppose congratulation are in order,” Hawke dipped her chin as she appraised him. He looked…well. Surprising, since the hell the Inquisition had been dragged through these past months. There was a surety to the Templar’s actions that he’d never before possessed, even as he was on the back foot. “You’ve certainly outgrown Kirkwall.”

Her voice was harsher than intended.

“After…Yes. I was needed at the Conclave,” Cullen agreed, posture shifting slightly to a more defensive stance. She hated that she’d inspired that, that he stood there with eyes narrowed in determination and betrayal. “A voice of reason was vital, after what happened in Kirkwall.”

After Kirkwall, after what Anders had wrought there. 

After she’d fled, the Seekers had not been the only ones searching for her. Cullen had written to her many times, via Varric. He’d pleaded for her to return, to restore order to City of Chains. To help end the war. To come to the Conclave to speak to the Divine. 

Hawke had ignored them all.

To the side, her latest verbal opponent watched with decidedly nondescript nonchalance. A muscle in her jaw ached; Hawke hated airing dirty laundry in front of strangers. Especially snarky strangers.

“It was not safe for me to stay in one place for long,” she replied stiffly. “It was not safe for me to be…anywhere.”

Cullen’s throat worked against itself as he tried to answer. Hawke did not help him. She hated the thought that she’d failed him. She hated that he thought she’d failed Kirkwall.

And she owed him, Maker damn it all. Hawke owed him.

“We needed you,” he said softly. 

It wasn’t even an accusation, she could have dealt with that. She shook her head sadly.

“You needed a figurehead.” Crossing her arms, Hawke avoided the Templar’s stare. “I dare say you have a far more suitable one now.” 

“That’s not-“ Cullen visibly struggled to find his words. “Kirkwall…needed you.”

The corner of her mouth drooped down, and Hawke could feel the edges of a snarl curling over her tongue. Maker’s balls, she was tired of this argument. It was bloody rich of him to be throwing around the weight of duty when for six years he’d hidden behind Meredith’s sword. Never mind the ever increasing ranks of Tranquil, staring placidly at nothing in the Gallows Courtyard. Never mind the fear-mongering, the terror. The abuse at the hands of monsters like Alric. 

A part of her whispered Cullen didn’t deserve her rage. Another part still held him accountable.

Her head jerked as she reigned in her ire. Cullen’s grim look and Solas’s narrowed eyes indicated that she hadn’t succeeded entirely.

“Kirkwall is in the capable hands of the Guard Captain, whose reputation, is far less contentious than my own.” Hawke told him briskly. “I’m done being Kirkwall’s Champion, and its scrape-goat”

To his credit, Cullen met her stony glare without a flinch. 

“Then why are you here?”

She almost punched him.

“Unfinished business,” snapped Hawke, as she stomped out of the rotunda. “Ask Varric. I’m done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was meant to be less grim then the last chapter. It almost was. 
> 
> I had a hard time placing Cullen and Hawke's reaction to one another. Hawke clearly still has mixed feelings towards him in a _maybe you're not a bad guy, but boy would I never let my baby sister be under your wardship but you did come through at the very last minute_ kinda way.
> 
> Also, why weren't there more interactions between Hawke and the Inquisitor's companions? That would have been cool.


End file.
